


Trapped Between Ice and Stone

by wordsthatcanbreathe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Animal Death, Clexa, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Guilt, Injury, Polis, Slow Burn, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsthatcanbreathe/pseuds/wordsthatcanbreathe
Summary: “I am giving you a choice, Klark kom Skaikru. Kill Lexa, or watch me kill your people.”
Or
Two weeks after leaving Camp Jaha, Clarke falls into the hands of the Ice Queen. Instead of killing her, Queen Nia gives Clarke a choice. Clarke wants to believe it will be an easy one to make, but she soon discovers that nothing is easy when Lexa is involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergence from 2x16
> 
> I was disappointed by the lack of role the Ice Nation had in season 3 (among many, many other things, obviously). Anyway, one day I had this thought that what if Clarke actually did fall into the hands of the Ice Queen after leaving Camp Jaha? And then the idea for this fic kind of grew from there. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!

Clarke can smell her own filth. It’s been two weeks since she last bathed. Two weeks since she walked away from Camp Jaha. Two weeks since she left her friends and family behind. 

She could bathe if she wanted to. There’s a river close by to the small cave she has been using as shelter. Clarke is far from an expert on surviving alone in a post-apocalyptic forest, evident by her protruding ribcage and loose hanging clothes, but she understands the importance of having a water source. She deals with the cave’s cold stone floor and the many-legged insects that scuttle around it, because at least she is close to water. 

She knows that she should bathe. The sweat in her armpits, the grease in her hair, the dirt caked onto her skin- together they form a gnarly, sour odor that burns her nostrils. Sometimes it makes her gag. But that’s exactly why she resists the temptation. She wants to smell like she feels. Disgusting. 

There has been too much death by her hand. Her humanity is decomposing like all of those dead bodies in Mount Weather. She is responsible for each and every one. There were children. She killed children. 

There is no coming back from the horrors she has committed. A little piece of her died with each and every death she has caused. That’s a lot of fucking pieces. Sometimes she wonders if there’s even anything left at all. She’s surviving, but she’s not really living. 

Her hands, cracked and blistered, rub over her empty stomach. She’s not even doing a good job of surviving. The supply of nuts and berries that she had accumulated over her first couple of days out here is just about gone. Her stomach growls at her, angry for being neglected. Her body, like her soul, is withering away. 

Clarke doesn’t want to die though. That would be too easy. Part of her feels like she deserves this pain. She deserves to suffer- retribution for all of the suffering she has caused. That look Jasper gave her as he held Maya in his arms, as if Clarke herself was the grim reaper. The commander of death. That’s what she is now. 

Clarke’s stomach growls again, the sound ricocheting off the slimy cave walls. One does not need to be the daughter of a doctor to know that if she doesn’t eat soon, she will die of starvation. She has to find food. She has to survive so she can carry the burden of the dead. 

With a groan, Clarke stretches herself out of the fetal position she had slept in. Her arms shake when she pushes herself into a sitting position, muscles weak and bones brittle like dry leaves. Standing proves even more difficult. She collapses back down on her sore butt twice before finally managing to stand on both feet. Her legs shake just like her arms. She has an overwhelming urge to collapse back down and simply sleep. She’s been sleeping more than she’s been awake the past few days, her body too weak to do much else. Sometimes it’s difficult to decide what’s actually worse- being awake or asleep. When she’s awake, her thoughts haunt her. When she’s asleep, her dreams haunt her. Dreams filled with dead bodies and agonized screams and green eyes murky with betrayal. 

Clarke steps out of her dismal cave, ignoring the protest from her muscles. Swirls of purple decorate the early morning sky, and the small part of her that still believes in the beauty of earth wishes she had paint and a canvas to capture it. A chilly breeze whispers through the forest, rattling the leaves and forcing Clarke to pull her jacket tighter around her body. She once overheard a conversation between two grounders in TonDC, discussing the harshness of winter. ‘Air so cold it makes your eyes sting.’ She isn’t yet sure how she will manage to survive out here when winter does come. Her warmest clothing is this tattered, leather jacket. But that’s a problem for another day. Today, she has to find food. 

Since she has already gathered and eaten most of the edible nuts and berries nearby, she figures she has two options: she can expand her search to surrounding land, or, she can hunt. The first option increases her risk of running into Trikru, but the second requires her to figure out the best method of killing an animal. Strange that she has never killed an animal on her own, but she has managed to kill so many people. 

She decides to hunt. It’s an important skill to have, especially if she intends on surviving out here alone for more than a few weeks. And she doesn’t have the energy to hide from Trikru. Not that she necessarily would even be able to. She never quite mastered the art of stealth. Twigs break underneath her heavy steps and she doesn’t know how to hide her trail. She is a walking target. 

The only weapon she brought with her was her gun. It’d be much too reckless to use that to hunt. It’s loud and she needs to save her bullets for protection. She chastises herself for not being more prepared. It was stupid and careless to walk away from camp without gathering supplies. But she can’t go back. She just can’t. All of the survivors will only remind her of all of the dead. She doesn’t need any more reminders. 

Clarke hobbles over to the river. Her legs are still wobbly and weak, and she has to pause a few times to catch her breath. The deterioration of her body is happening quicker than she anticipated, and it strengthens her resolve to find food. She plops down onto the riverbank with a grunt, the small pebbles digging painfully into her butt. She yanks off her boots and her socks, grimacing when the odor wafts up to her nostrils. Before giving it a second thought, her resolve cracks slightly, and she douses her socks in the river water. Brown, dirty water drips back into the clean river when she wrings her socks out. She lays them onto the riverbank so the sun can dry them out. Admittedly, she does feel slightly better. But she still refuses to clean the rest of her clothes. She doesn’t deserve to feel better. 

She stands back up without as much trouble, partially invigorated by the thought that her socks no longer smell like a dead animal. The pebbles scrape and dig into her feet, but she fights through it as she trudges into the river. She stops when she is ankle deep. A groan of pleasure breaks free from her mouth, the cool river water soothing her feet. She only allows herself a couple seconds to relish it, because she doesn’t deserve to feel relief. 

Clarke’s eyes remain trained on the riverbed as she wades through the water. Silver fish dart away from her with each step, too tiny and quick for her to catch. If only she had a net of some sort. Once again, she chastises herself for not bringing enough supplies with her. 

She continues her trek through the shallow water, every once and a while pulling a stone out to examine it. Finally, after a painfully long search, she finds the two stones she needs: a large, round one, and a long, thin jagged one. Holding tightly onto the stones as if they are her quite literally her lifeline, she trudges out of the water and collapses down on the grass just past the riverbank. 

Her feet sting, and she doesn’t need to look at them to know red blisters are already forming. She ignores the pain and quickly moves on to her next task. She holds the flat stone in her right hand and the jagged one in her left, and she rubs them together, sharpening and shaping the jagged one. It takes a little while before she establishes a rhythm, but once she does, the task becomes oddly soothing. Stone scraping against stone- that’s all she needs to focus on. Whenever thoughts of dead bodies or tortured cries or green eyes try to break through her concentration, she rubs the stones together with even more vigor, and that helps scrape the thoughts away. 

It takes almost half the day, and her hands are so raw that pus has begun to ooze out of her ripped skin, but she finally manages to sharpen and shape the jagged stone into a decent spearhead. Better than decent actually. She carefully presses her fingertip onto the sharp point. It punctures her skin, and a drop of blood slides down her finger and over her palm. Her lips crack upward into a smile, pleased with her handiwork. She can’t remember the last time she actually smiled, and it feels uncomfortable. Like sleeping on stone or swimming or feeling warm blood on her hands. 

With the afternoon sunlight now beating mercilessly down on her, she sheds her leather jacket and her shirt, leaving her in just her bra and tank top. She uses the spearhead she just forged to cut off the sleeves of her shirt and then wraps them around her pussy, blistered hands. Tucking the spearhead safely away into her jacket pocket, she heads back down to the riverbank. Her socks are dry and smell significantly better. She pulls them back on, her big toe poking through a hole in her left sock, and then slides her feet into her boots. 

She pushes herself off the ground, and then like a slap to the face, her whole head is suddenly spinning. Patches of black spot her vision, and her stomach rolls. She knows she is about to pass out. It happened once when she lived on the Ark. She had the flu and got out of bed too quickly. Next thing she knew she was waking up on the floor, her mother hovering over her with worried eyes. After that incident, Abby had told her, “If you ever feel like you are about to faint, lie down and take deep breaths.” 

Her mother’s advice registers immediately. Clarke lies down on the ground, ignoring the pebbles pressing into her skull and her back. She takes deep breaths. In, out. In, out. After a minute, her vision clears, and her head stops spinning. A sigh of relief escapes her chapped lips. She really can’t afford to faint and add a head injury to her growing list of problems. 

She allows herself another minute of lying there, staring at the blue sky and wishing she could float among the clouds, no longer suffocated by the weight of her decisions. Of all the death she caused. The irony of it is not lost on her- she used to dream of coming to the ground, and now she wishes to be returned to the sky. 

Slowly and carefully, Clarke pushes herself into a sitting position. She waits a few seconds to be sure she doesn’t feel like she is going to faint again. Then, even more slowly and carefully, she brings herself to her feet. Arms held out to keep her balance, she closes her eyes and breathes deeply through her nose. When her eyes open again, her vision remains clear and her body stays steady. 

Now that her unfortunate fainting spell has passed, she returns to the task of finding food. Her body needs sustenance. Like yesterday. Actually, more like a week ago. She literally won’t be able to walk if she doesn’t eat soon. 

Clarke wanders through the forest, never straying far from her cave. When she finds a suitably long and straight stick, she then goes about cutting off some thin vine from a tree. With shaky hands, she just barely manages to tie her pointed rock to the end of the stick with the vine. A second, strange-feeling smile forms on her lips when she pounds the dull end of the stick on the ground and the forged tip remains firmly in place. She actually made her own spear. Maybe she will manage to survive out here alone, after all.

* * *

Descending dusk chills the air, and goose bumps erupt on Clarke’s arms. She pulls her leather jacket back on and then goes, spear in hand, to sit next to a tree near the river. She has seen deer grazing around this area before, and she hopes they will reappear tonight. Considering she has no experience with spear throwing, she figures she’ll have better luck with a large target.

She leans her head against the tree trunk and curls her legs up to her chest for warmth. All she can do now is wait. She used to despise waiting. Waiting for battle plans to be drawn up. Waiting for news from Bellamy inside Mount Weather. Waiting for something to go wrong, because something always went wrong. But there’s something so simple, almost careless, about her current situation, that it’s actually comforting. All she needs to do is wait for deer. That’s all. It’s nice. 

Her eyes flutter, and her head leans more heavily against the tree. Making a spear has sapped almost all of the energy out of her withering body. As much as she wants to give in to sleep, she can’t afford to miss an opportunity to finally get some food in her stomach. She begins to recite multiples of three in her head to try and stay awake. She doesn’t even make it into triple digits before passing out.

* * *

Snap. The sound pulls Clarke out of sleep. Two weeks ago, when her body wasn’t a sack of skin and bones and she actually had energy to spare, any misplaced sound in the forest would fling her into high alert. With her current level of exhaustion, however, transitioning from sleep to wakefulness has become a slow, painful process.

It’s not until she hears another snap that she even bothers to lift her head off the tree. Her neck muscles spasm in response, and it’s only by some miracle that she manages to hold back a yelp of pain. When she looks around, she soon realizes that the snapping she heard was the sound of sticks breaking underneath deer hooves. Less than five meters away from her stand three female deer, heads bent down as they nibble on grass. This time, she actually has to hold back a squeal of delight. 

Clarke immediately eyes up the one that stands at the most advantageous angle to her. The whole left side of its body is facing her, allowing for the optimal amount of body surface to try and spear it with. She hopes that she can kill it on the first throw. If she does only manage to injure it, however, which she admits there is a high probability of since she’s never thrown a spear before, she’s willing to deliver the fatal blow up close. Her desperate hunger eliminates any qualms she may have about standing over a deer and thrusting a spear through its heart. 

Holding her breath, Clarke musters as much energy as she can to push herself off the ground. It’s slow and incredibly painful. Her whole body aches, and her effort to remain quiet only exacerbates the strain on her muscles. But she refuses to fall. She will stand. She will kill this deer. She will survive. 

Her legs wobble dangerously, but she’s up, standing straight without the support of the tree. She allows herself the tiniest exhale of breath. One of the deer looks up, and Clarke’s heart leaps into her throat. Her whole body stiffens as she watches, waits, terrified that even the slightest movement will spook the deer and leave her one step closer to starving to death. The deer keeps its head up for a second longer before resuming nibbling on the grass. Clarke holds back a sigh of relief.

Her grip tightens around the spear. Very carefully, she adjusts her stance, right foot in front of her left, knees slightly bent. She lifts the spear above her shoulder and aims at the deer. An image of Jasper getting speared in the chest, face contorted in pain, flashes through her mind. God, that seems like a lifetime ago. The image is quickly replaced by another one, still Jasper’s face, but contorted with anger, and a different kind of pain, as he held Maya’s body in his arms. Clarke clenches her teeth and throws the spear to dispel the image.

* * *

It’s almost as if Clarke is watching the world in slow motion as the spear flies through the air. This makes it all the worse when she realizes it isn’t going to reach the deer. It’s like the universe is taunting her, forcing her to watch her failure in a warped, slowed down version of time so she can agonize over it for even longer.

The spear lands on the ground with a thud, about a meter short of her target, and time resumes its normal speed. All three deer jolt at the sound and immediately sprint away. Clarke’s hope leaves with them. 

She can feel tears spring to her eyes but chokes them back down, too angry to cry. Another night without food. Her stomach growls on cue, so furious at her for failing. She adds the failure to the already long list. She almost allows her body to slump to the ground, but the night has grown colder, and she can’t risk hypothermia by sleeping out here. She may not be eating tonight, but that doesn’t mean she will let herself die tonight. So she gathers all the remaining energy she has left and walks back toward her cave, grabbing her spear on the way. 

Once Clarke is back in her cave, she lights a small fire with the supply of wood and leaves she has stored up. At least there is plenty of that. She huddles up closely to the fire, rests her head on her hands, and immediately falls asleep.

* * *

Clarke stands in a hallway, surrounded by cages on both sides. Whispers from all around crawl into her ears like savage bugs, intent on picking apart her brain.

‘Help us.’

‘Please.’

Hands stick out between the bars of the cages, grasping at her. She can’t see the faces of the people trapped, but she can hear their whispers. Their pleas. 

‘Free us.’

‘Please, Clarke.’ 

She has to help them. She reaches for the door of the nearest cage and pulls. It doesn’t budge. She pulls even harder. Nothing. The pleas are louder now.

‘Clarke!’

‘Help us!’

And then suddenly, two hands are gripping her throat, trying to choke her. She screams and yanks herself away from the cage. She moves to the next one and pulls on its door. It doesn’t open. Hands grab at her again, suffocating her.

‘Not good enough!’

‘Try harder!’

Clarke runs. The pleas turn to screams, hands still reaching out to her, trying to grab her. She runs faster. 

The hallway stretches on. She can’t see the end of it. Her breaths grow heavier as the screams around her grow louder. She keeps running. 

And then she spots it. An opening at the end of the hallway. There’s a painful stich in her side, but she forces her legs to move faster. With a gasp, she reaches the opening and hurls herself through. 

The screams fall away. Everything is silent. Clarke catches her breath and looks around. There are metal bars all around her. She’s in a cage. 

A loud clang behind her shatters the silence. She whirls around to see the barred door slamming shut. ‘No!’ she screams. When she looks through the space between the metal bars, her stomach lurches. 

Lexa stands on the other side. Her face is smeared in blood. She keeps her expression rigid and stares at Clarke with hard, green eyes. 

“Lexa, what are you doing? Open the door!” Clarke yells. She grips the bars, and yanks, but the door doesn’t move. 

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice betraying no emotion. “But I made this decision with my head and not my heart.” She turns around without another word, her black cloak trailing behind her as she walks away. 

“Lexa, wait! You can’t do this!” Clarke shouts. Lexa keeps walking until she is swallowed up by darkness.

* * *

Clarke’s eyes fly open and she gasps for air. The image of Lexa’s face, smeared in blood, eyes cold, burns in Clarke’s mind. Clarke digs her nails into her palms, focusing on the pain, until she’s awake enough to forcefully push the image from her mind. She’ll be damned if she lets Lexa haunt her conscious thoughts.

Clarke blinks, her eyes adjust to the early morning sunlight streaming in through the cave opening. She knows she won’t be able to go back to sleep, so she gathers up the strength to push herself up into a sitting position, ignoring the protest from her tense muscles. She stands and walks out of her cave, facing the new day with more vigor than usual. That terrible dream actually gave her an idea. 

She spends all morning cutting vines from trees and carving sticks with the tip of her spear. She only takes breaks to drink water from the river, and then goes right back to work. Determination has bloomed deep inside her chest. She refuses to be helpless like she was in her dream. 

By late afternoon, she looks down at her accomplishment with a satisfied nod of her head. She has made an animal trap. It’s rudimentary, but it works. She can’t help thinking that Raven would be proud. 

Clarke grabs the last few nuts from her supply and places them inside the trap. Now, all she can do is wait. She goes to lie down on the grass by the river to look up at the clouds. She watches them form different shapes until she falls asleep.

* * *

When Clarke wakes up, she is looking up at a dark blue sky. She rubs her face, her hands cold from the evening air. Her movements are sluggish as she sits up, a heavy yawn escaping her. And then she remembers the trap, and suddenly, she’s scrambling to stand.

She races over to the trap, pushing her legs as hard as they will allow. Her breaths are ragged by the time she reaches it. When she sees that the door to the trap is shut, she actually loses her breath, nervous excitement sucking all the air from her lungs. 

Her body collapses down next to it, and she peers through the gap between two of the sticks. A wide smile breaks out on her face when she sees a rabbit pacing around inside. Clarke’s stomach rumbles in anticipation. She’s actually going to eat tonight. She’s going to survive. 

Clarke patiently waits for the rabbit to stop moving. She specifically placed the sticks far enough apart on the top of the trap so that her spear could fit through. In her body’s current condition, she doesn’t trust her reflexes to be quick enough to grab the rabbit out of the trap with her hands.

When the rabbit finally stops its pacing, Clarke doesn’t waste any time. She raises her spear above the trap and drives it through the opening between two sticks. This time, she doesn’t miss her target.

* * *

Blood drenches Clarke’s hands as she prepares the rabbit for cooking. She pauses when the memory of Finn’s blood on her hands burns through her thoughts. Bile shoots up her throat, and she gags. Her stomach is so empty that nothing comes up.

Her overriding hunger helps her to force the memory out of her thoughts. The dead are gone. The living are hungry. Literally. She finishes preparing the rabbit and then cooks the meat over a fire in her cave. When that first piece of meat touches her tongue, a moan of pleasure passes through her lips. She scarfs down the rest, barely taking the time to breathe in between bites. 

For the first time in weeks, her stomach is full. So full, actually, that it feels like it is going to burst open. She lies down, stretching out fully to alleviate some of the pressure in her stomach. Her eyes flutter closed as exhaustion seeps through her skin and burrows into her bones. 

Clarke drifts into that hazy place between wakefulness and sleep. Just as she is about to give herself completely over to sleep, she feels something press down over her mouth. Her eyes fly open and land on the scarred face of a girl hovering over her. Clarke tries to scream, but the sound is muffled as the girl presses her hand harder over Clarke’s mouth.

The girl smirks. “Hello, Clarke of the Sky People. I’ve been looking for you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about what Ontari's character was like in the show since I basically stopped watching after 307. For those that watched, I'm sure she will seem ooc in this fic (hopefully in a good way). Just as a heads up, the other Ice Nation characters will also mostly be head-canon (and there will be some original ones). The only thing that I can guarantee is the same as canon is that Roan is Nia's son. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Survival instincts take control, and Clarke is suddenly wide-awake, heart hammering and fingers twitching with adrenaline. She reaches for her gun, which she sleeps next to like a goddamn teddy bear. She feels her fingers graze the metal, and then there’s a flash of movement above her, followed by a sickening crunch. A sudden, searing pain in her right hand makes her scream, but it sounds more like a choked moan with the hand still pressed over her mouth. 

Clarke looks through tear-glazed eyes at her right hand, which she is sure is broken, buried underneath the girl’s black boot. The girl shifts again, pulling her boot off Clarke’s hand, and using it to kick the gun away. It hits the cave wall with a thud, and Clarke’s heart thuds loudly in response. She looks wildly around for something else. The spear. She goes to reach for it with her left hand, but the girl above her is way too quick, now straddling Clarke and using her other boot to kick the spear away. 

“Stop it, sky girl. This is just getting embarrassing.” 

Fury burns hot in Clarke’s chest. She did not survive starvation only to be killed by a grounder than can’t be much older than Clarke herself. She reaches for the girl’s face with both hands, ignoring the stabbing pain in her right one. She’ll claw this girl’s eyes out if she has to. 

But then there’s cold metal touching Clarke’s neck, and she knows what it is even before the girl hisses, “Stop moving, or I will slit your throat open.” 

Clarke stills, but her insides continue to squirm with anger. She’s angry at this grounder bitch, but she’s even angrier at herself for being so vulnerable and weak. And she’s scared. The girl hasn’t killed her yet, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t plan to. 

Clarke looks up at her. She’s wearing a black, hooded cloak, with some stray pieces of brown hair sticking out. Her face is just barely visible in the faint light of the dying fire. There are prominent scars on her forehead and cheeks, but the pattern and the symmetry of them suggests intentionality. Clarke doesn’t remember seeing anything like them before. That’s when it hits her. She’s not Trikru. 

“I’m going to lift my hand from your mouth,” the girl says. “If you scream, I will cut your tongue out. Understand?” 

Clarke clenches her jaw and nods. When she feels the pressure leave her mouth, lips puffing back up like foam, she fights the temptation to scream out of spite. But she has no doubt, looking at this grounder’s face, lines hard and void of any pity, that she will follow through with the threat. So Clarke keeps her mouth closed. 

The girl rolls Clarke’s body over like a sack of potatoes, and Clarke marvels at just how strong she is, despite her small frame. She probably weighs less than Clarke does herself. The girl yanks Clarke’s arms behind her back, and she has to muffle a yelp by pressing her mouth against the cave floor. The vicious throbbing in her broken hand makes tears fall down her cheeks. 

“Quiet!” the girl hisses as she expertly ties Clarke’s wrists together with rope. The pressure amplifies the pain in her hand, and she has to bite down on her tongue to stop herself from screaming.

“Get up.” The girl tugs on Clarke’s elbows, forcing her up onto her feet. The knifepoint is now pressed against her back as she’s lead over toward the gun. 

Clarke is surprised when the girl picks it up, holding it as if it’s coated in poison, and then dropping into the satchel that hangs over the girl’s shoulder. She knows how much grounders fear guns, so why the hell the girl want to take it? It’s not like it’s a threat now that Clarke’s hands are tied behind her back. 

Before she can ponder on it any longer, she’s being pushed roughly toward the opening of the cave. “Don’t bother trying to run,” the girl whispers as soon as they step outside. Hot breath tickles Clarke’s neck, and it makes her shiver. “This knife will be lodged deep in your back before you make it three steps.” She knows there’s no point in testing that threat. She saw how quick the girl is, and it’s not like there’s much she can do with both hands tied behind her back, one of them broken. 

The forest is blanketed in darkness as thick as syrup. Clarke can’t see more than a couple of feet in front of her, forcing her to just blindly move wherever the girl directs her. She hates it. She hates not having control. Ever since coming to the ground, everything has always seemed to spin out of control, forcing her to constantly react instead of plan. Leaving Camp Jaha was supposed to be a way to gain control back. But now, here she is, being led through the darkness by a grounder, most likely to her death. 

“For fuck’s sake, you smell worse than a dead animal.” The girl presses down on Clarke’s shoulder, forcing her to stop. There’s a moment of silence, as if the grounder is waiting for something, or maybe deliberating. Clarke braces herself for death. “Dammit,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t travel like this.”

Shit. What does that even mean? The girl shoves her, and they are moving again. Clarke flinches when something cold and wet soaks through her boots. They’re in the river. 

Her breaths turn ragged when she realizes the girl is going to drown her. It’s one of the worst possible ways to die. Clarke actually considers slamming herself backward into the knife. She’d rather die via stabbing than drowning. 

A blast of cold shocks her whole body, and she is already under the water before she can even give that idea any more consideration. Her body thrashes as she tries to escape the girl’s strong grip on her neck. Maybe someone will hear the splashing. She doubts it. 

She’s not sure how long she is under the water before she’s being yanked back up. She sucks in a deep breath, savoring the feeling of air filling her lungs. The girl pulls Clarke up onto her feet and then puts her nose next to her head. She inhales and actually sniffs her. “Better,” she says. 

Clarke’s eyes widen. “Did you actually just bathe me?” she splutters.

“Quiet,” the girl barks as she leads them out of the river. Clarke breathes a sigh of relief when they step back onto dry land. Her heart rate returns to an acceptable level after the passing threat of death by drowning. “You reeked. It was repulsive.” 

If this girl took the time to actually bathe her, then that suggests they will probably be traveling together for a while. Where the hell is she taking her? She bites back her questions. The knife is pressed against her back again. 

They haven’t been walking for very long when Clarke hears a loud snort. She jolts, and the grounder scoffs. “The commander of death is afraid of a horse.” Clarke’s stomach rolls at the name. Commander of death. Images of dead bodies flood into her mind, and she has to focus on the throbbing in her broken hand to ward off the haunted thoughts. 

“I’m going to mount this horse, and then I’m going to pull you up with me. Try to resist, and you are dead.” Clarke’s beginning to think the grounder’s death threats are empty. If she was going to kill her, she’d have done it already. There was ample opportunity. The fact that she is keeping her alive is either a good thing, or a very, very bad thing. Based on her experience here on the ground, she figures with a sinking heart that it’s probably the latter. 

Despite the (most likely) empty nature of the threat, Clarke doesn’t bother trying to run. She may be reckless sometimes, like when she walked away from Camp Jaha with barely any supplies, but she’s not stupid. She knows she’s no match for this grounder, especially in the dark, without her gun, and with her hands tied behind her back. 

Once the girl is mounted, she reaches down and grabs underneath Clarke’s armpits. Again, Clarke marvels at the girl’s strength as she lifts her onto the horse, situating Clarke so that she’s sitting in front. She wonders how this girl would fare against Lexa. Clarke ignores the pang in her chest at the thought of Lexa fighting her, and then with practiced vigilance, quickly shakes the thought from her mind. 

“You aren’t nearly as smart as I thought you were,” the girl says as she reaches for the reins, “so I’m going to warn you now- don’t bother trying anything while we ride.” Clarke grinds her teeth together and resists the urge to head butt the girl in the face. 

With the kick of the girl’s heels, the horse begins a steady sprint through the forest. The grounder must be very familiar with this part of the forest if she is able to navigate in the dark like this. It’s disconcerting, because Clarke is almost positive this girl isn’t Trikru. 

Her hand continues to throb harder the longer they ride. She wishes she could get a look at it to evaluate just how bad the fracture is. It may cause permanent damage if she doesn’t treat it properly. A sudden longing for the safety of her mother’s embrace slams Clarke right in the center of her chest. A sob claws its way out of her throat before she can rein it in, but if the girl behind her hears it, she doesn’t say anything. 

* * *

Clarke isn’t sure at what point she passed out, but when she wakes up, she’s still on top of a horse, and her body is slumped against the grounder sitting behind her. Darkness has yielded to morning light, and Clarke jolts upright when she realizes just how different the landscape is.

The trees surrounding them are spread further apart, and dead leaves already blanket the ground, crunching loudly underneath the hooves of the trotting horse. All of the branches are bare and crooked, like gnarled fingers. Clarke shivers. Even the air seems colder, and her clothes are still wet from the river. 

“The sky queen has awakened,” the girl says. Clarke turns her head to glare at her, and the girl smirks in response. 

“Where are you taking me?” Clarke rasps, throat dry from sleep.

“Don’t assume that because you are queen of the sky that you can demand answers from me. This is the ground.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I’m not a queen, okay? So stop calling me that.” 

“Okay. Sky princess, then. That suits you better anyway. Being a queen requires much more strength than you possess.”

Clarke grits her teeth but doesn’t respond. The girl is just phishing for reactions, and she doesn’t intend on giving her any more. Instead, she straightens in her seat and tries to stretch some of her muscles. Her legs feel like useless mush from riding this damn horse for so long. Her neck is cramped from the awkward position she slept in. Her arms, which are still pinned behind her back, feel like they want to fall off her body. The worst pain comes from her throbbing, broken hand. She wiggles her wrists in an attempt to relieve some of the tight pressure from the rope. That’s when she notices the tingling sensation in her right thumb. 

Fuck. It’s probably nerve damage. She needs to set the bone soon or it might turn permanent. Clarke twists her body around in the seat to try and get a glimpse of her hand. 

“Eyes ahead.” The girl palms Clarke’s cheek and shoves her head forward.

“I need to fix my broken hand,” Clarke snaps. “You know, the one you stomped on.” 

“You’ll survive.”

Clarke doesn’t bother telling her that a fractured bone can cause an infection, and without antibiotics, that can indeed lead to death. They haven’t stopped all night, and she figures that even if the grounder doesn’t need sleep, the horse will need to rest soon. Hopefully then she will be able to get a good look at her hand. 

She shivers, and try as she may, she can’t stop her teeth from chattering. No longer leaning against the body of the girl behind her, she has no source of heat to offset the cool air penetrating her wet clothes. She absolutely refuses to lean back against the girl, however. She’s already pissed at herself for doing that in her sleep. She’d rather die of hypothermia than use her kidnapper for warmth. 

The girl surprisingly doesn’t offer up any snarky comment in response to Clarke’s chattering teeth, and Clarke is happy to ride in silence. It gives her time to think. She escaped Mount Weather. Surely she can find a way to escape from this grounder. This might be her only chance, when it is just the two of them traveling together. God knows where they are going, but Clarke figures once they reach their destination, her chances of escape will be slim to nothing. 

Her gun is in the girl’s satchel. Even with her hands tied behind her back, she may still be able to grab it. She’ll need to wait for the right opportunity, whenever she can catch the girl off-guard. Maybe when they are dismounting the horse? That might work. 

Then there’s the matter of finding her way back. There has to be at least one village nearby. She can ask someone there for a way back to- 

Polis. She’ll have to say Polis. The people out here most likely won’t even know what Camp Jaha is. Clarke ignores the fluttering in her chest at the thought of going to Polis. At the thought of seeing… No. No way in hell she will actually go to Polis. But at least she’ll be able to get back to the right territory. 

The horse stops, and Clarke is pulled out of her plans of escape. She looks around and sees a large tent set up near one of the trees. A brown horse stands next to it, tied to the tree trunk by a long rope. A thin veil of smoke billows up from a fire pit right outside the tent flap. Fuck. Clarke tries to fight off the ache of futility creeping into her bones. There’s already someone here.

“Alright, sky princess, I’m going to get off first, and then I’ll pull you down.”

The grounder dismounts with ease, boots landing on the ground with a quiet thud. Just as she reaches out to grab Clarke, a man steps out of the tent. He’s at least a foot taller than Clarke, and his arms are the size of her thighs. He wears a long, black coat lined with fur, and his hair and beard reach past his broad shoulders. He has similar symmetrical scars on his face, with just a slightly different pattern than the girl’s. 

“Ontari!” he booms, breaking out into a toothy smile. “I wasn’t expecting you for at least another week.” 

“Yes, well, wanheda here,” Ontari says, gesturing at Clarke, “doesn’t quite live up to her reputation. I was expecting at least a little bit of a challenge.” 

Clarke scowls. She wants to say that if Ontari was looking for a challenge, she shouldn’t have taken the coward’s way of sneaking up on her at night. Her mouth stays shut, however. She doesn’t want to screw up her opportunity for escape. Now that there are two grounders, she needs to do this quickly. 

She takes a deep breath as Ontari lifts her arms to pull her off the horse. Instead of allowing Ontari to grab her, she heaves herself into Ontari’s open arms. Ontari falls backward and hits the ground with a heavy grunt. Clarke lands on top of her, sucking in a breath of air on impact. She grasps desperately at the satchel lying next to them, ignoring the throbbing pain in her right hand. 

Clarke just barely manages to open the bag, a remarkable feat with her hands tied behind her back, when she feels burly arms wrap around her and lift her into the air. Her legs flail and one of her boots actually makes contact with the man’s kneecap. He curses under his breath, but his arms manage to tighten around her torso, and suddenly Clarke is gasping for air. She stops kicking, focusing all her energy on getting enough air into her lungs. 

Ontari scrambles to her feet. “You bitch!” She just barely manages to choke out the words, clearly having trouble breathing as well. Clarke would be happy about knocking the wind out of her, if not for the fact that she just lost her best chance at an escape.

Ontari’s eyes are murderous as she marches over toward Clarke, still tucked into the arms of the large grounder. “Ontari, no!” the man says, pulling one of his arms off Clarke to hold it out, barring Ontari from moving any closer. “Remember what she said.”

She? For one, fleeting moment, Clarke thinks he’s referring to Lexa. But no, that wouldn’t make any sense. Lexa would have no reason to bring Clarke all the way out here. Wherever here is. 

“She only said alive! That doesn’t mean I can’t teach skai hainofi here a few things about respect.” Ontari tries to shove his hand away, but it’s like an ant trying to move a tree. 

“No. She already looks like she’s on the brink of death. You aren’t going to push her over the edge.” 

Ontari’s jaw clenches so tightly it looks like it is going to crack into pieces like porcelain. She glares at Clarke for a second, as if she attempting to rip her apart with her eyes. Clarke refuses to break eye contact.

When Ontari looks back up at the grounder holding onto Clarke, she relaxes her stance and sighs. “I hate you, Korvor.” 

He chuckles, his chest vibrating against Clarke’s back. “No you don’t.”

* * *

Ontari leads Clarke into the tent, shoving her much more roughly than necessary, while Korvor unloads the bags strapped to Ontari’s horse. The tent is spacious, but almost as bare as the cave Clarke had been sleeping in. There are some furs piled into one of the corners, a sack stuffed with clothes, and a heap of weapons, including a spear, a few knives, and a bow and arrows. Clarke eyes up the weapons, but Ontari quickly shoves her head forward. “Don’t even think about it,” she hisses. 

When Korvor drops the bags into the tent, Ontari promptly begins rummaging through them. “Watch her,” she says to Korvor and points at Clarke. 

Ontari pulls out a piece of jerky from one of the bags and shoves it into her mouth. Clarke’s stomach rumbles in response, but her pride stops her from asking for some. Not that Ontari would even oblige. She’d probably just hurl out a sneering comment. 

While chewing on her jerky, Ontari crouches next to another bag and pulls out a coat. It looks similar to the one Korvor wears, black and lined with grey fur. She drapes it over herself, goes to stand up, but then stops. With a sigh, she reaches back into the bag and pulls out several more pieces of clothing. 

“Here,” she says, throwing them down at the ground next to Clarke. “Wouldn’t want the princess dying from the cold. I’m sure it’s much warmer in the sky.”

“It’s not,” Clarke snaps.

Ontari glares at her, and for a second, Clarke thinks she is going to lunge. She sees Korvor stiffen, preparing to intervene. Instead, Ontari just points down at the pile of clothes. “Change.” 

Clarke sighs. “I need you to untie me first.” At least now she will be able to get a proper look at her hand. 

Ontari nods at Korvor, who walks over to Clarke, knife in hand. He spins Clarke around and then cuts the rope in one swift stroke. She moans when her arms fall to the side, muscles crying in painful relief. She pulls her right hand up to her face to examine it. It’s swollen to almost twice the size of her left, and her thumb is purple and pointing out at an unnatural angle. She grimaces. She’ll need to reset it. 

“I’m going to go feed the horses,” Ontari declares. She looks at Korvor. “Keep a close eye on her.” He nods, and she marches out of the tent. 

Clarke decides to put on the clothes first. At least then she can be warm while she’s writhing in pain. “Can I have a little privacy?”

Korvor grumbles but takes a few steps backward. He turns slightly to the side, enough so that Clarke can have some semblance of privacy while also making a sneak attack impossible. Not that she would even bother trying. 

Clarke gingerly peels off her boots and wet clothes, and then she goes about the laborious process of dressing herself with only one hand. There’s a pair of tight, black pants that she just barely manages to pull on and button. She puts on the thick, hooded sweater next, wrapping her arms around her torso and savoring the warmth returning back to her body. The wool socks are pulled on last, clean and wonderfully free of holes. She doesn’t bother putting her boots back on. They’re still damp from the river, and she wants to enjoy warm feet for as long as possible. 

With a grunt, Clarke plops down on the ground, pulling her legs underneath her. She examines her right hand again, wincing when she lightly traces over her twisted thumb with her left forefinger. The thought of resetting this bone without any sort of painkillers makes her stomach roll. This is going to hurt like a motherfucker.

Korvor has turned back around and is watching her silently. “I’m going to need to reset my bone,” Clarke says without looking at him. He doesn’t reply. Instead he squats down and rummages through his bag of clothes. Clarke keeps her eyes trained on her hand, figuring out the exact angle needed to pop her bone back into place. 

“Here,” he says, standing back up and holding out a brown bottle toward her. Clarke eyes it suspiciously.

“It will help with the pain.” He drinks from it. “Not poison,” he adds with a grin and holds it back toward her. “Take it.”

Clarke grabs the bottle tentatively and sniffs it. Her nose scrunches. Definitely alcohol. She nods at him and then takes a large swig. The drink scorches her throat like fire. Her eyes water and she coughs, just barely suppressing a gag. “Strong,” she splutters.

Korvor chuckles, deep but harmless, like a roll of thunder before a light drizzle. “Yes, it is, sky princess.” There’s no malice behind the reference, so Clarke lets it pass over her without so much as a frown. 

Clarke takes a few more swigs, welcoming the pleasant buzz swirling through her head. She hands the bottle back to Korvor, who looks at her with an expression dangerously close to pity. Clarke takes a deep breath and then stuffs her damp, discarded shirt into her mouth. She bites down on it, ignoring the mild taste of dirt and sweat. Her left hand wraps around her right thumb, and the pain already makes her wince. She begins a countdown in her head. 

Five.

Four. 

Three.

Two.

One. 

Clarke snaps her bone back into place. A bloodcurdling scream manages to escape through the shirt in her mouth. It makes Korvor wince. The pain makes Clarke pass out.

* * *

A combination of three sensory stimulations wakes Clarke up: flickering light, a throbbing in her hand, and the tangy smell of cooked meat. Candles have been spread throughout the tent, the dancing flames casting shadows on the walls. Clarke rubs her eyes with her left hand and then examines her right one, still swollen like a purple balloon. At least her thumb is pointing at the correct angle, and the tingling has subsided. She hopes that she managed to prevent any nerve damage. Only time will tell. 

Ontari is sitting in the opposite corner of the tent, gnawing on a skewer of meat. The intoxicating smell makes Clarke’s stomach growl. She hasn’t eaten since last night. 

Clarke pushes herself into a sitting position, careful not to put any pressure on her fractured hand. Ontari looks up at her and grins. A drop of meat juice rolls down her chin. “Hey there, sky princess. Have a nice nap?”

“How long was I out?” Clarke asks, running her hand over her face. Judging by the darkness poking through the slit in the tent opening, she slept through the day. 

Ontari shrugs. “Several hours at least.” 

“Where’s Korvor?” Clarke would rather not be stuck alone with Ontari. At least Korvor is tolerable. And maybe he’d be willing to give her some more of his drink to help with the pain in her hand. 

“Keeping watch outside.” Ontari takes another huge bite out of the meat on the skewer, and Clarke can’t manage to pull her longing gaze away.

Ontari chews loudly and with her mouth open. Her chin shines with grease. When she catches Clarke staring, she rolls her eyes and grabs another skewer of meat off of the plate next to her. “Here,” she says, throwing it at Clarke. It lands with a plop on the tent floor, directly in front of Clarke’s feet. “Korvor said I had to feed you.” 

Clarke picks it up and takes a large bite, moaning at the burst of savory juice in her mouth. After her second bite, a brown bottle rolls toward her and hits her foot. “He also told me to give that to you,” Ontari says. Clarke doesn’t hesitate in downing the rest of the alcohol.

* * *

“I need to borrow that knife,” Clarke says after she’s finished eating. Ontari finished before her, and has now taken to sharpening one of her knives. 

“And why is that?” Ontari asks, not bothering to look up. "So you can try to stab me and fail?" 

“No," Clarke snaps. "So I can make a splint for my hand.” The pleasant buzz from the alcohol has managed to dull some of the pain, but Clarke knows she has a long way to go before her hand is even close to being healed. 

Ontari doesn’t respond, leaving only the scraping sound of metal to displace the silence in the tent. Clarke rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll ask Korvor, then.”

Ontari sighs dramatically and after two more sharpening strokes, she hops to her feet. She loops her knife into her belt and then grabs a rucksack from the other corner of the tent. Clarke eyes her suspiciously as she walks over and sits down in front of her. 

Without a word, Ontari flips the rucksack over, and supplies scatter on the floor between them. It’s everything Clarke should have brought with her after leaving Camp Jaha: bandages, cloth tape, gloves, tweezers, scissors, soap, candles, canteens, rope, netting, and some tools that Clarke can’t even place. 

Ontari digs through the pile and pulls out a long bandage. When she reaches for Clarke’s broken hand, Clarke yanks it away. “What are you doing?”

Ontari rolls her eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing?” She shakes the bandage in front of Clarke’s face. "Helping you with your hand.”

“I can do it myself.”

Ontari cocks an eyebrow. “Oh really? You are going to properly splint it with only one hand? And here I thought you were a healer.” 

Clarke examines Ontari’s face like it’s a chessboard, looking for any sort of clue about this girl’s objective. First she kidnapped her and threatened to kill her, and now she’s offering to splint her hand. It doesn’t make sense. Not yet, anyway. Clarke intends to figure it out. “How do you know I’m a healer?”

“You are well-known among my people, Klark kom Skaikru.”

“And who are your people, exactly?” Clarke fires back. “Because you’re obviously not Trikru.” 

Ontari’s nose scrunches, as if she just got a whiff of an unpleasant smell. “It’d be an insult if you thought I was.”

Clarke opens her mouth, an urge to defend Trikru forming like a sweet and sour taste on her tongue. But Lexa’s Trikru. And Lexa betrayed her. It still hurts. More than she’d like to admit. The taste turns completely sour, and she swallows the urge back down. 

The moment isn’t lost on Ontari. The corner of her lips twitches, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she reaches for Clarke’s hand again. Before Clarke can pull it away, Ontari grabs her wrist, not gently, but not roughly enough to hurt, either. 

Clarke exhales through her nose as Ontari begins wrapping her hand. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve dealt with much worse than a meager broken hand.” 

Based on the ease with which Ontari wraps Clarke’s hand, she doesn’t actually question the validity of that statement. “So you’re a healer then?” 

Ontari finishes the wrapping and pins it in place. She looks up at Clarke with a frown. “Do you think a mere healer would be sent to capture the mighty wanheda?” 

Clarke narrows her eyes as she stares intently at Ontari. “Who sent you?”

Ontari smirks as she holds Clarke’s gaze. “The Ice Queen.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Here's to hoping 2017 treats us better than 2016. 
> 
> I didn't intend for such a long break in between updates. Trying to be better. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

_“Her name was Costia. She was captured by the Ice Nation.”_ Those are the first words that run through Clarke’s mind. She can remember Lexa’s voice so clearly as she had said them. Cold and detached. But there was something buried underneath the words. Something that Lexa tried to hide, but Clarke could hear nonetheless. _Pain._

_“They tortured her, killed her, cut off her head.”_ She recalls those words next. Should it bother her that she remembers Lexa’s words so clearly in her mind? Does she actually treasure the few moments that Lexa had opened up to her? Treasure them so much that she memorized the words and the lilt of Lexa’s voice as she had spoken them? 

It doesn’t matter. Not once those words sink in like a poison. The Ice Nation captured Costia, and now they have captured her. Costia was Lexa’s lover. Clarke is not. But they share a connection. She isn’t stupid enough to try and deny that. And maybe the Ice Queen figured that out somehow. Maybe she thinks Clarke knows of Lexa’s secrets just like Costia had. 

Clarke summons as much strength as she can muster and forces her expression into a mask of indifference. She refuses to look afraid in front of Ontari. She won’t give her the satisfaction. 

She watches Ontari’s amber eyes scan her face, and she must have succeeded, because Ontari looks almost disappointed. “What does your queen want from me?” Clarke asks. She hears the tiniest hint of resignation in her voice. She hopes Ontari doesn’t pick up on it. 

“I guess you’ll find out,” Ontari says. She stands up and goes back to the other side of the tent to resume sharpening her knives. Clarke knows that’s all she’s going to get from her. So, she lies down, faces away from Ontari, and tries to sleep.

* * *

Clarke wakes up to Ontari prodding her in the side with a stick. “Get up,” Ontari barks. 

Clarke shoves the stick away with a grunt. She rubs her eyes and sits up. She is exhausted and feels like shit. She barely slept, suffering from more nightmares than usual. Nightmares about Lexa ( _always Lexa_ ), dying children, dying friends, her father. And new ones. A figure that she knew to be the Ice Queen, but whose face she could never see, hidden behind a mask of carved ice. A brown box shoved into her arms, that she knew contained Costia’s head. Before she could open it, however, she woke up. 

Her hand throbs. She looks at it, still wrapped in the splint Ontari made for her last night. All she can do is hope that it is getting better. Or at least not any worse. She doesn’t have the energy to deal with it. Not that there is much she can do for it anyway. It’s not like she has an abundance of medical supplies at her disposal. 

“Get up!” Ontari repeats after she finishes packing up her bags. 

“I’m working on it,” Clarke bites back. Slowly, she stands up, despite the heaviness in her body attempting to pull her back down. She doesn’t want to keep her old, wet clothes, sitting in a pile next to her, so she leaves them for Ontari to clean up. She tugs on her boots and steps outside. 

The sky is grey and the chilly air stings her face. The temperature drop makes sense now. They are heading north, toward the Ice Nation. She doesn’t know much about the kingdom, and that unsettles her. The unknown is worse than the truth. All she’s heard are hushed rumors and Lexa’s brief but terrifying revelation. The Ice Queen is ruthless. She knows that much. 

“Morning, sky princess.” Korvor pulls her out of her dark thoughts. He’s leading both the horses toward the tent, already saddled and ready to go. 

“Morning,” Clarke grumbles. She wraps her arms closely around the sweater Ontari gave her, protecting her body from the chill. She imagines it will only get colder, and she’s dreading it. 

“Not used to the cold, eh?” Korvor asks. 

Clarke shakes her head. “No.” 

Korvor stops in front of her. He digs through one of the bags that is strapped to his horse. “Here,” he says, holding out a large, black coat. “Take my spare. This weather is warm compared to where we are going. You’ll need it.” 

Clarke takes it from him. It’s heavier than a baby. She pulls it around herself, and the bottom of it reaches her ankles. The fur on the inside is warm and soft, and she already feels better. She nods at Korvor, and he smiles back at her. 

Ontari steps out of the tent, carrying her bags, and goes to stand by Korvor. “Ready to go?” she asks him. 

He nods. “Just need to take down the tent and then we can leave.” 

Korvor steps around Clarke toward the tent, and Ontari scans her up and down. “Look at you, trying to fit in,” she sneers. “How do you think Lexa would feel, seeing you all dressed up like an Ice Nation warrior?” 

Clarke flinches at the sound of Lexa’s name. Ontari spit it out like she hated the feeling of it on her tongue. No respect and no fear as she said it. So, this is about Lexa then. It has to be. Why else would Ontari even mention her? 

“I doubt she would care,” Clarke says, keeping her voice indifferent. Why would she? She made it known that she didn’t care about Clarke the moment she left her, betrayed her, at the mountain. 

Ontari smirks, making it clear she doesn’t believe it. She doesn’t bother responding though. Instead, she turns around and begins strapping her bags to her horse. Clarke forces herself not to think about Lexa anymore. 

Once Korvor finishes folding up the tent, he straps it to his horse, and then looks at Clarke. “Time to go, sky princess.” 

Clarke sighs, resigned to her fate. She’s going to see the Ice Queen. There’s no escaping it. Especially since Korvor is coming with them. She can’t fight off two Ice Nation warriors all by herself. 

Korvor hoists her up onto Ontari’s horse. Ontari mounts, situating herself in the saddle behind Clarke. “I hope you know by now that there’s no point trying to pull anything,” Ontari says. “You failed yesterday, and you would fail again. And I promise, I won’t be as lenient.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Ontari taps her horse’s sides with her boots and they’re off. She can hear Korvor following behind on his horse as they gallop through the thinning forest.

* * *

They travel for three days and two nights, only stopping to sleep at night and once or twice during the day to rest and to eat. Korvor always makes sure Clarke gets food. By the third day of travel, however, she loses her appetite. She knows they’re close. They now ride through almost a foot of snow blanketing the ground. There are no more trees, just vast, white openness. She never thought she’d miss the forest so much. But she does. Snow isn’t nearly as appealing as she imagined it to be. It’s cold and wet and difficult to walk in. Her boots aren’t suited for it. Her feet are almost always numb from the cold.

On the third day, when the light grey sky has transitioned to the evening color of charcoal, a foreboding, spiked black gate comes into view. It’s surrounded by black fence on either side, stretching to the left and right for as far as Clarke can see. It’s much too tall for anyone to be able to climb. Clarke figures that without the camouflage and protection that the trees provide Trikru, the Ice Queen relies on this fence. Admittedly, it’s rather impressive, despite the way it makes Clarke’s stomach twist. 

There are Ice Nation guards stationed on the two watch towers on either side of the gate. They must recognize Ontari and Korvor right away, because the gate opens as soon as they reach it. The grinding metal scrapes at Clarke’s ears. 

When they pass through, Clarke can see a castle in the distance. The Ice Queen lives in an actual castle. She can’t believe it, and she can at the same time. She remembers reading about castles in the fairytale books, back when she was a kid on the Ark. They sounded so magical. This castle is just terrifying. From this distance, it looks like it could be forged in actual ice. 

They continue to ride, getting closer and closer to the castle. Clarke feels sicker and sicker to her stomach. The Ice Queen, the person that tortured and beheaded Costia, awaits her beyond those castle walls. What can she possibly want from Clarke? She doesn’t have any secrets of Lexa’s that would be of any use to her. 

Maybe the Ice Queen sees her as a threat and wants her dead? She did help take down the mountain. But Ontari could have killed her a long time ago. If only she knew what the Ice Queen _wanted_ , she could prepare. Instead, she’s going in blind, and it’s driving her crazy.

They are close enough now for Clarke to see that the castle is built with greyish-white stone. The rooves of the five pinnacles are painted blue. She figures there are guards posted at the top of each one. The Ice Queen has surrounded herself in a fortress. 

Ontari hops off the horse once they reach the entrance to the castle. Clarke squeezes the horse’s mane, wishing she could turn the horse around and ride and ride and ride until she’s far away from this place. Back to the safety of the forest. She doesn’t bother trying, of course. She knows she probably wouldn’t even make it back to the gate.

Instead, she allows Korvor to pull her off the horse. Her boots hit the snow with a _crunch_. Ontari hands the reins of her horse off to one of the two guards standing by the entrance. She then grabs Clarke’s right arm none too lightly. Clarke fights the urge to try and shake her off. 

The second guard, larger and burlier than the other, lowers the wooden draw-bridge. Once it’s flat on the ground, he walks across and then goes about raising the iron grated door on the other side. The impenetrability of this entrance reminds her too much of Mount Weather’s entrance. All that waited for her on the other side of that entrance were horrors that continue to haunt her. She can’t help but think that more horrors await her on the other side of this entrance as well. 

“Let’s go,” Ontari says, shoving Clarke forward, her grip still tight around her arm. 

“Goodbye, Klark kom Skaikru,” Korvor says behind her. She turns around to see that Korvor is back on top of his horse. He gives her a wave with his large, gloved hand. She’s surprised to find herself sad to see Korvor leave. He was only ever kind to her. And he made the trip with Ontari slightly more bearable. She gives him a wave back, the long sleeve of his coat hiding her hand. She doesn’t try to give him the coat back. She doubts anyone behind this castle door will give her another one. And it’s so cold.

* * *

The castle’s grand entrance room is as unwelcoming as the cold. The shiny, marble floor reminds Clarke of ice. There’s a wide staircase straight ahead, leading to the unknown. It’s dark, the room lit by just a few torches mounted along the walls. And it’s eerily empty. 

To Clarke’s surprise, Ontari yanks her to the right, away from the staircase. She just figured that’s where they were headed, since the staircase is the most intimidating aspect of the room. She imagined the Ice Queen waiting at the top, ready to kill her. 

Ontari pulls her through a dark hallway that branches off from the entrance room. She can barely see her own boots beneath her. “Where are you taking me?” Clarke asks. 

Ontari ignores her and continues to pull her along. They make so many left and right turns, winding through the maze of hallways, that Clarke almost loses track. She knows it is futile, but she can’t help her instinct to keep track of her whereabouts, because that’s the only way she could ever hope to escape. 

Finally, they reach a large, wooden door at the end of one of the hallways. There’s a guard posted outside of it. He hands Ontari a ring of keys, and she uses one of the keys to unlock the door. It creaks when she pulls it open, the creepy sound echoing through the hallway. 

Ontari pulls Clarke through the door and down a narrow staircase. Clarke trips, not expecting the stairs, and almost falls. “Watch it,” Ontari hisses, yanking her upright by the arm. 

“You could have warned me there were stairs,” Clarke snaps. 

Ontari squeezes Clarke’s arm even tighter and starts dragging her down again. The further they descend, the more uneasy Clarke feels. She remembers from those same books she read on the Ark, the ones with the castles, that the dungeons were underground. 

It’s like Clarke has stepped into one of her nightmares when they reach the bottom. Torches line the walls down here as well, providing enough light for her to see the row of prison cells stretching on either side of her. Ontari pulls her to the right, and Clarke’s breathing becomes heavier with each cell they pass. Some are empty. Some have a half-starved body lying on the floor. And others, these are the worst, have someone who stares at Clarke as she passes. She tries to avoid their listless gazes, but she can still feel them on her, and it makes her skin itch. 

At the end of the hallway, there is a solid, metal door, and somehow, Clarke just knows that’s the one they are headed for. Sure enough, Ontari leads her straight to it. She uses another one of the keys on the ring to open it. There’s just a dark, empty room on the other side. It reminds Clarke too much of her solitary unit on the Ark. She can’t help the panic that bubbles up in her like boiling water. Her body squirms, instinctively trying to pull herself from Ontari’s grip. 

“Stop it,” Ontari says. She pushes Clarke through without much effort. “Get in there.” The door slams shut, and Clarke is alone. 

“You can’t leave me in here!” Clarke screams. She slams on the door with her unbroken fist. “Ontari! Get back here!” 

She knows it’s useless. She can hear Ontari’s retreating footsteps. Clarke turns her back to the door and slides down to sit on the hay-covered floor. She was locked away in the sky, and now she’s locked away on the ground. It’s like everything in her life has come full circle. 

Tears burn at her eyes, and she doesn’t bother trying to stop them from running down her cheeks. Solitary. Again. How long will she be left to rot in here? Days? Months? Years? Maybe she’ll die down here in this god-forsaken dungeon.

Once the first tears fall, she loses control. Her sobbing gets louder and fiercer, until her whole body is shaking. She left Camp Jaha because she needed to get away from the people that reminded her of the atrocities she committed. _Her people_. She was able to walk away because she knew she could come back if she wanted to. Once she was ready. But, now, stripped clean of that choice, she feels so painfully _alone_. 

Eventually, her body grows too tired to produce any more tears. Her eyes dry up. She scoots away from the door and lies on her side, pulling her knees up to her chest. She buries her face into the fur-lined collar of Korvor’s coat. She falls asleep.

* * *

The grating sound of metal jolts Clarke awake. She quickly pushes herself up into a sitting position. A tall man dressed in the clothes of an Ice Nation guard stands in the doorway of her prison cell. She doesn’t recognize him. 

“What do you want?” Clarke asks, not regretting the spite in her voice. 

“You’ve been called upon by the Queen.” Clarke startles, not expecting that. She knows not that much time could have passed since she fell asleep, because she doesn’t remember having any nightmares. She always has at least one nightmare if she sleeps any longer than an hour or two. Clarke stands before the guard has a chance to forcefully haul her up. 

She walks over to edge of the room, and the guard grabs her arm, slightly more gently than Ontari had. He closes the door behind them and leads her back down the hallway. She tries to ignore the gazes of the prisoners. “Why does she want to see me?” Clarke asks in an attempt to distract herself. 

“I do not speak on behalf of my queen,” he says. She can see the fear swirling around in his wide, brown eyes, as if he believes the Ice Queen is listening to their conversation. 

“I’m not asking you to speak on behalf of her.”

“You ask me to explain her reasoning. That would be speaking on her behalf. Which I will not do,” the guard says. 

“Alright, sure, whatever.” She doesn’t bother asking him anything else. 

He leads her back up the narrow staircase, and when they reach the top, Clarke sucks in a heavy breath of relief. She didn’t realize until now just how much she hates being underground. They retrace the same route Ontari had taken, through the numerous hallways, until they are back in the grand entrance. The guard pulls her toward the large, marble staircase. Clarke isn’t surprised.

As they walk up the stairs, Clarke half expects the Ice Queen to be waiting for her at the top, sword in hand. She isn’t. Instead, a large empty hall greets her. The floor is made of the same white marble as the entrance. A large chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Its crystals look like little icicles. Paintings hang from the walls, depicting Ice Nation warriors with swords and bows, usually with dead people at their feet. The dead hold strikingly similar features to Trikru. 

Three wooden doors line the right wall and another three line the left. Straight ahead stands the largest door, elaborate symbols carved into its wood. The guard pulls Clarke toward that one. She braces herself for whatever awaits her on the other side. 

The guard opens the door. When he yanks her through, the first thing her eyes fall on is a giant, roasted pig. It sits atop the center of a long, wooden table that extends across the length of the room. Numerous, high-backed chairs surround the table. After the pig, her eyes dart to the person occupying the chair on the opposite end of the table. _The Ice Queen_. She’s not wearing an ice mask like in Clarke’s dream, but Clarke knows it’s her all the same. The air of regality that surrounds her, the way she holds herself, with so much confidence and superiority, and the knowing smile she gives her. 

The Ice Queen is draped in a white, fur coat, and she wears a carved bone piece on the center of her head. There are Ice Nation scars decorating her forehead. They’re simple but imposing at the same time. “Welcome, Clarke of the Sky People,” she says, gesturing to the room around her. Even her voice is shrouded in regality. “Please, sit.” 

The guard holding Clarke’s arm releases her. He pulls out the chair closest to her, directly across from the queen. There’s already a chalice and full plate of food on the table in front of it. Clarke sits, her eyes never leaving the queen’s icy blue ones. She can just barely see her face over the pig. 

“What an honor to finally meet the Destroyer of the Mountain,” the Ice Queen says. Clarke tries not to flinch. She hates that name. She destroyed so much more than a mountain. “I am Queen Nia of the Ice Nation.” 

Nia takes a sip of whatever is contained in her silver chalice and then says, “I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you here.” 

Clarke frowns. “You didn’t bring me here. You forced me here.” 

Nia smiles. “And here I thought no one could force the mighty wanheda to do anything she didn’t want to do.”

“What do you want from me, Queen Nia of the Ice Nation?” Clarke snarls. She’s not going to get entangled in Nia’s mind games. 

Nia takes another sip from her chalice. She clears her throat. “I want you to kill Lexa.” 

Despite her attempt to keep her face clear of emotion, Clarke’s mouth drops. Sharp anxiety cuts through her stomach like a blade. She tries to remember that she _hates_ Lexa. She shouldn’t care. Yet, she feels like she might puke. “You… you, what?” she splutters. 

“You heard me, Clarke. I want you to kill Lexa.” 

Clarke takes a deep breath. “Yeah? And why would I do that for you exactly?” 

“Lexa left you at the mountain. She betrayed you. Such a cowardly thing to do.” Nia clucks her tongue and gives a small shake of her head. “I thought wanheda would be eager to kill her. She deserves it, does she not?” 

Clarke clenches her fist. She’s pretty sure that despite her best intentions, she’s managed to fall into Nia’s mind games anyway. But she’s right, isn’t she? Lexa does deserve to die. She left Clarke to die. She left Clarke’s people to die. Innocent people _did_ die. _Blood must have blood_? Isn’t that exactly what Lexa believes? 

“It doesn’t matter what she deserves,” Clarke says. “I’m not doing anything for you. I owe you _nothing_.” 

“I see.” Nia picks up her fork and knife and takes a bite of pork. She slowly wipes her mouth with a black napkin. “Let me just get straight to the point,” she says, looking back up at Clarke. “I am giving you a choice, Klark kom Skaikru. Kill Lexa, or watch me kill your people.”

Clarke feels bile shoot up her throat. She grips the edge of the table with her hand to keep herself steady. “You… you can’t. Lexa won’t-”

“Lexa won’t, what?” Nia says, her eyebrows quirked. “Won’t let me wipe out your people with my army? She already betrayed you and your people once. Do you really think she would come to their protection now? Risk her coalition for the sake of your people?” Nia scoffs. “I delivered Lexa her lover’s head on a platter to her bed, and even then she didn’t risk her precious coalition.”

Clarke shoots to her feet, almost knocking her chair over. She slams her fist on the table. “Shut. Up.” 

Suddenly, Clarke feels the cold blade of a knife on her throat. Nia puts her hand up. “It’s alright,” she says. “Wanheda has a bit of a temper. I might too if I got betrayed as she did. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Just as quickly as the blade appeared, it’s gone. Clarke turns around to glare at the guard who brought her here. He steps back, putting his knife back in the sheath on his belt. 

“Sit down,” Nia says. “We still have much to discuss. Or should I order my army now to march on your people’s camp?” 

Clarke exhales. She wishes she could strangle Nia right here in her own castle. Instead, she sits. Sits and listens to this disgusting woman, for her people. Always for her people. 

“Do you know how I’ve managed to stay in power so long, Clarke? I pay close attention to other’s weaknesses. I sniff them out like blood. I think you know what I’m talking about, even if you don’t want to admit it.” Nia looks at Clarke with a glint in her cold eyes, as if they’re sharing a secret. “One doesn’t manage to destroy the Mountain without a propensity for seeking out others’ weaknesses.” 

“No.” Clarke shakes her head, a little too violently. “No. You’re wrong.” She doesn’t _use_ people. Not like Nia. She’s _nothing_ like her. 

“I sniffed out Lexa’s first major weakness,” Nia continues, ignoring Clarke. “That girl of hers-” She taps her fingers on the table. “What was her name again?” Clarke clenches her teeth together so hard they hurt. “Irrelevant,” Nia says with a wave of her hand. “That girl was her weakness, and I exploited it.”

“But you didn’t,” Clarke says with a twisted smirk. “Not really. Lexa was strong. The coalition still exists.”

“Lexa handled it better than I anticipated. I can admit that. But I’ve learned, and I’ve waited. And now I’ve found an even bigger weakness of hers.” Nia flashes a wicked smile. “You.”

Clarke laughs. She actually _laughs_. It’s dry and throaty, a truly nasty sound devoid of any humor. It’s frightening to listen to. She didn’t know she was capable of such a sound. “You’re delusional. Truly. I’m not Lexa’s lover,” she spits out. “I’m not even her friend. She betrayed me, remember?” 

Nia looks unfazed, her expression still smooth as ice. “Do you know why I couldn’t get the other girl to give me anything useful? Even after days of torturing her?” Clarke tries not to wince at the word ‘days’. “Because she was loyal to Lexa. Lexa loved someone who put her first. You, however, put your people first. Above everything and everyone else. And that’s how I know you’ll be useful to me.”

Clarke suddenly feels exhausted. The adrenaline from the initial meeting has worn off, replaced by a bone deep heaviness in her body that makes her wish she could sleep and not wake up for a long time. She didn’t ask to be a leader. And yet here she is, _again_ , forced into a position where she must fight to protect her people. 

“So what?” Clarke snaps. “You want me to just stroll into Polis and kill one of the greatest warriors I know? Just like that?”

“Don’t be stupid, Clarke. A situation such as this requires much more… _delicacy_.” Nia glances at Clarke’s plate of untouched food. “Why aren’t you eating? I wouldn’t bring you all this way just to poison you.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat.” Nia takes a large bite of some sort of green vegetable. “It might be awhile before you eat again.”

Clarke’s face scrunches. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re going to starve me out if I don’t do what you say?”

“Of course not. I already know you are going to do what I say. And you do too. Because you will do anything for your people, correct? If I’m wrong, I wish you’d tell me now. I don’t want to waste my time. I’ll make you watch me wipe out your people, and then I’ll kill you. Simple as that.” Nia looks at Clarke the way Clarke would look at Wells before she said the word ‘checkmate’. “So tell me. Can I assume you will do as I say?”

Clarke can feel the hatred burning in her own eyes as she stares back at Nia. Again and again since coming to this hell known as the earth, she has been forced to make difficult decisions. Decisions that pick apart at her humanity until one day she’s sure there will be nothing left. Maybe she will actually become the Commander of Death. _But this shouldn’t be a difficult choice, should it_? If Lexa was in Clarke’s place, she would accept her proposition in a heartbeat. She’s already proved she will do anything for her people. Clarke can do the same. She nods. “Yes.”

Nia smirks. “Excellent.” She waves her knife in the direction of Clarke’s plate. “Now eat.” 

Clarke picks off a small piece of her bread roll and forces it into her mouth. She doesn’t think she can stomach any meat. “So what’s your brilliant plan then?” she asks after swallowing the bread. It felt like a rock sliding down her throat. She takes a sip of the wine in the chalice to wash it down. “How do you expect me to kill the mighty Commander?”

“Do you know about the Kongeda Festival in three months?” Nia asks. She bites off a huge chunk of pork, and Clarke has to work hard to not throw up that bread she just swallowed. 

“No.” 

“It’s a huge gathering in Polis that includes members of all the clans. It’s the only time Lexa will allow me and a large group of my people to even step foot into Trikru territory. The festival is Lexa’s way of celebrating the alliance of the twelve clans. Similar to your Unity Day.” Clarke tries not to flinch. _How does the Ice Queen know about Unity Day_? 

“Yes, Clarke,” she continues, her voice dripping with smugness. “I already have a couple spies stationed in your people’s camp. Honestly, you would think after being betrayed by Lexa they would be a little more careful about who they take in.” She shrugs. “Careless and ignorant, your people are.” 

Clarke has to beat down the urge to throw her knife at Nia. “You know nothing about my people,” she growls. 

“I’m learning a lot. That’s the point of moles, Clarke.” The anger in Clarke’s chest burns hot. She has never hated someone so much. Not even Lexa. 

“The Kongeda Festival,” Nia continues. “At noon, Lexa will hold a meeting with all of the clan leaders, including myself. We must make sure there is absolutely no suspicion regarding Lexa’s death. It can’t be linked back to me, or I will have a war on my hands. You will make sure you are at that meeting. And then you will shoot Lexa, with all of the clan leaders as witness.” 

Clarke laughs again. That same, ugly laugh that she hates to listen to, but bursts out of her chest nonetheless. “Let me get this straight. You want me to somehow worm my way into this meeting, and also manage to sneak in my gun? I suppose I should be honored by the Queen of the Ice Nation’s faith in my abilities.” 

Nia smiles. “Oh, I have complete faith in your ability to manage the first part. Lexa’s sad weakness and your conniving charm, I know you’ll make yourself a home right at Lexa’s side. As for the second part, let me take care of that.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “There’s one big problem with your grand scheme. Trikru love Lexa. They will want retribution for her death. They’ll blame not just me, but my people, and then try to kill us. How is that any better than your people killing us?” 

“You forget, Clarke. I will already be in Polis with some of my top warriors. I’ll take control before week’s end. You have my word that your people will be protected by mine. Perhaps Skaikru will even want to join forces with Azgeda. I think our people can do great things together.” 

Clarke scowls at the thought of her people joining the Ice Nation. She hates the thought of being under Nia’s control. She’d actually rather be under Lexa’s, which is sickening in its own right. But Nia’s right. Lexa has no intention of protecting her people. Her coalition means more to her. And better Clarke’s people be under Azgeda than dead. “Lexa’s not dumb,” Clarke says. “When she finds out I was captured by you first, she’ll be suspicious of me going to Polis. She has spies too.” 

The wicked smile Nia flashes Clarke makes her grimace. “Lexa already knows you’ve been captured by me.” 

“What? How?” 

“Did you know Lexa has hired my son to try and find you?”

Clarke swallows. “No.” 

“I tell you, sometimes Lexa can be just as naive as your people. She’s fallen for the ruse that I’ve banished my son from Azgeda. That we are enemies now. A ruse we concocted for exactly an opportunity such as this.” Nia laughs, and Clarke decides she hates the sound even more than her own laugh. “As if Roan would ever betray me.” 

“What’s your point?” Clarke asks, her exhaustion seeping through her words. She’s been stuck in this room with Nia for far too long. She just wants to sleep. 

“My point, Clarke, is that my son has promised Lexa that he will rescue you from Azgeda. My son, the hero. There will be no questions about your motives for going to Polis. He will take you there, so that Lexa can protect you from the evil Ice Queen.” 

Clarke sighs. She forces herself to take another bite of bread, because she knows where this is going now. “Ah, clever girl,” Nia says with a nod. “Yes, it would look suspicious if you came back from Azgeda all plump and healthy. Luckily,” she says, scanning Clarke’s face. “You’re off to a good start, letting yourself rot in the woods like a sickly animal.” She nods at Clarke’s right hand resting on the table. “And I hear my Ontari already did a number on your hand.” 

Clarke drops her hand beneath the table and frowns. “So when is your son coming to _rescue_ me?” She really doesn’t want to be stuck in Azgeda for long. Then again, she’s not looking forward to Polis either. 

“Four days.” 

Clarke nods. She can do four days. Nia stands, and Clarke does the same. Nia’s eyes are glinting with arrogance as she rounds the table and approaches. Clarke remains still, not breaking eye contact. Nia stops directly in front of her, and even when she pulls a small, sharp knife from off her belt, Clarke remains still. 

“I’m glad we came to an understanding.” Nia takes a step closer and brings the knife up to Clarke’s face. She gently strokes her cheek with the blade. Clarke wants nothing more than to yank that knife out of her hand and stab her in her frozen heart. “Double-cross me, and I promise you, I will make you watch me kill your people. One by one.” She lowers the blade. “Roan will be checking in with you periodically in Polis. I look forward to his updates until the festival. See you in three months, Klark kom Skaikru.”

* * *

Clarke spends four days alone in her cell in the castle dungeon. She’s only able to keep track because once a day, a guard brings her to the castle’s infirmary where their head healer does some rudimentary tests to make sure Clarke isn’t about to die. She’s of no use to Nia if she’s dead. 

Her skin now stretches tightly over her ribcage. They didn’t bother feeding her until the third day. It was just enough food to keep her from passing out. A brown, soupy substance that she almost threw back up. She would have rather eaten dirt. On the second night, her stomach had actually burned so badly that she ate a couple pieces of hay on the floor of her cell. 

The cell is cold, just like this kingdom. She’s thankful for the coat Korvor gave her. It’s one of the few things that bring her comfort. It might actually be the only thing. 

Her nightmares have gotten worse. There’s one specifically that haunts her every night. She’s standing in the entrance to Lexa’s tent. Lexa stands on the other side and says to her, “ _You were born for this, Clarke, same as me._ ” That’s when Clarke pulls out her gun and with a trembling hand and points it straight at Lexa’s chest. Lexa’s green eyes widen, and slowly she places her hand over her heart. Softly, she says, “ _Not everyone, not you._ ” Clarke always wakes up before she can pull the trigger. 

On her fourth day, after her visit to the healer, Clarke’s guard doesn’t bring her back to the dungeon. Instead, he leads her outside. It’s snowing. Clarke shivers violently. She doesn’t have enough body fat to help keep herself warm. 

He pulls her toward a large barn on the side of the castle. When they step inside, the pungent smell of hay and dirt reminds her of her cell. There are at least thirty stalls, with horses occupying most of them. There’s also two people. The first is a man she’s never seen before. He’s got long, brown hair and Azgeda scars on his face. She guesses who he is even before he nods his head and says, “Hello, Clarke of the Sky People. I’m Roan of Azgeda.” She doesn’t respond. The second person is Ontari. She looks at Clarke with her usual smirk. Clarke doesn’t have enough energy in her to even be annoyed. 

“Thank you, Van,” Roan says to the guard holding onto Clarke’s arm. “You can leave now.” 

“Pleasure to serve, Prince Roan,” the guard says with a bow. And then he’s gone, and Clarke is left alone with Roan and Ontari. 

Clarke looks at Roan. She isn’t quite sure what she imagined the Ice Queen’s son to look like, but she supposes the man standing in front of her looks to play the part. He holds himself with noticeable confidence, and his eyes are the same icy blue color as his mother’s. She frowns at him. “So you’re my _rescuer_ then?” 

“Yes, well, that’s what we want Lexa to believe at least,” he says. 

“And I’m here to help with that,” Ontari declares. 

Clarke looks at Ontari with a furrowed brow. She doesn’t understand. She thinks that maybe if she wasn’t starved and exhausted, she would. She doesn’t bother to ask, though. It’s pointless to waste her energy when she’s sure she’ll find out soon enough anyway. 

Ontari walks toward the barn wall and pulls off a whip hanging from one of the hooks. “You didn’t think Roan would be rescuing you only from starvation, did you?” 

Clarke sighs. She should have foreseen this. The whole plan is fucked if Lexa is suspicious of Clarke’s time in Azgeda. Starvation wouldn’t be enough for the Ice Queen. She’d want more pain. Clarke doesn’t hesitate to shed off her coat. She just wants this over with. She wants to leave this awful kingdom and never come back. Her teeth chatter as she pulls off her sweater next. The same sweater Ontari had given her several days ago. It smells disgusting now. She drops the sweater on the ground and glances down at her body. It doesn’t even look like hers anymore. 

She walks over to one of the empty stalls, wearing just her bra. She feels no shame. Shame sucks out too much energy. Clarke needs most of her energy just to keep herself from collapsing to the ground. She faces the barn door and grips it with her left hand. She leaves her broken, right one dangling at her side. At least the healer tended to her hand enough that she’s pretty sure it will heal eventually. Might lose some mobility in her thumb though. 

She hears Ontari approach, the hay crunching beneath her feet. She stops. Clarke closes her eyes, her back muscles tightening in preparation. “Stay still,” Ontari says. “Let’s say we do twenty-three. How does that sound? Twenty-three in honor of the years my queen has been leading our great nation.” 

The crack of the whip rings loudly in Clarke’s ears. It’s followed by a sharp, agonizing sting on her back. She bites her tongue to stop herself from crying. “One,” Ontari says. 

Clarke finds the strength to stay standing for twenty-three slashes to her back. She thinks maybe it’s a deep anger that has been growing since the moment she got locked away on the Ark that keeps her going. Anger is a powerful thing. Once she hears Ontari step away, however, she finally allows herself to give into her exhaustion. She slumps to the ground, and everything is dark.

* * *

Clarke wakes up to warmth on her face and a scorching pain on her back. She’s lying on her stomach. A burst of orange and red spots her vision. A bonfire. Hot and crackling, it matches how she feels on the inside. Right now, it’s contained, burning only the sticks and leaves it’s been fed. But it longs to spread and destroy everything in its path. 

She senses someone near her. She tries to lift her head to see, but her back screams at her in response. She hisses, her face tightening in a grimace. 

“Easy there,” a man says. Clarke recognizes his voice. Roan. The Ice Queen’s son. God, she hates Nia. _So much_. She promises herself that one day she will make her suffer for threatening Clarke’s people. After Lexa’s dead. She ignores the twist in her gut at the thought. 

Roan walks over and squats down next to her so she can see his face, illuminated by the firelight. The sky is dark. She remembers it being light out when she was brought to the barn. When Ontari whipped her twenty-three times. She promises herself that one day, she’ll make her pay too. “How long did we travel for?” she asks. 

“Not very long,” he says. “I need to go a little slower to compensate for your back.” 

“Go fuck yourself,” Clarke snaps. 

“I’m not blaming you,” he says quickly. “I just mean, that I don’t want it to get infected. I did my best bandaging it up. But I’m no healer.” 

“Would have looked suspicious if you brought me to a healer,” Clarke says sarcastically. 

He either doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm or he ignores it. “Exactly. I do have some herbs though that will hopefully allow you to sleep for most of the journey. And you can eat more now.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Awesome.” 

They’re silent after that. Clarke stares into the fire. It keeps her warm, along with Korvor’s coat wrapped around her. She’s shirtless underneath. At least Roan had the sense to not put her sweater back on. It was tight and would have put too much pressure on her back. Her eyelids flutter. She lets herself fall asleep because it’s all she wants to do. She doesn’t want to have to talk, think, or deal with the pain scorching her back and the burning anger eating up her insides.

* * *

Clarke wakes up sitting on top of Roan’s horse. The sky is bright. She notices there’s only a little snow on the ground. The trotting horse hurts her back. She asks Roan to give her some more of those sleeping herbs he was talking about. He hands her a thermos. She takes a sip. It tastes disgusting. She swallows it anyway. She falls back asleep.

* * *

Clarke is either half-awake or asleep during most of their journey to Polis. The only times she is fully awake is when Roan forces her to eat some food, when she has to relieve herself, or when he redresses the bandages on her back. That always hurts so much though that she usually passes out right after. Oh, and of course, directly after waking up from a nightmare. Sometimes Roan shakes her awake when she screams. She wants to punch him in the face when he does that. Being awake is just about as bad as her dreams. 

One day she wakes up surrounded by trees. A breath of relief slips past her anger. “How far away are we from Polis?” she asks Roan, sitting behind her on the horse. 

“Only a couple hours now,” he says. 

“ _Polis will change the way you the way you think about us_.” Back then, she thought Lexa already had. After the betrayal, she doesn’t believe those words anymore. She falls back asleep.

* * *

There’s loud voices all around. At first, Clarke thinks it’s another nightmare. It takes her a minute to realize they’re real. She opens her eyes. A swarm of people surround her. She flinches. 

“It’s okay,” Roan says behind her. His horse has slowed to a walk. It’s twitchy beneath her, uncomfortable with all the people, just like Clarke. “We’re in Polis now.” 

People gawk and point up at her and Roan as they continue through the crowd. She hears the word ‘wanheda’ repeated more times than she can count. She hates it. Sometimes the word is spoken with awe. But most of the time she hears only fear. 

“Ignore them,” Roan whispers. “These people can be very superstitious. They’ll calm down eventually, though.” 

They approach a tall tower with a flame burning on the top. Somehow, she knows that’s where Lexa is. The swirl of emotions that flood her at the thought makes her want to ask Roan to take her back to her little cave in the forest. Live simply and alone again. But, of course, he wouldn’t. Because that’s not part of the plan. 

They stop at the bottom of the wide, stone stairwell that leads up to the tower’s entrance. Several guards are posted outside of it. Roan dismounts his horse. Then, carefully, he lifts Clarke off and puts her on the ground. He keeps one of his arms around her shoulders to steady her. Her back burns, but she tries her best to stand straight.

Clarke looks up. And there’s Lexa. Sprinting down the stairs at breakneck speed. Two guards flank her, trying to match her pace. “Clear out!” she screams at the crowd that surrounds Clarke and Roan. “Everyone!”

The people immediately fall back, darting off in different directions. Clarke sighs, relieved to have all those eyes off of her. Looking at her as if she really is the commander of death. 

Lexa stops directly in front of Clarke. Her right arm reaches out to her, as if all she wants to do is touch Clarke, to make sure she’s really there. When Clarke flinches in response, her arm drops as quickly as if she’d been cut. 

Lexa looks _different_. Her cheeks have sunken in, making her sharp cheekbones look even more pronounced. She’s lost weight. A significant amount. Her clothes are loose. Her armor looks too big on her. The dark bags under her eyes are almost as dark as the war-paint she wore the last time Clarke saw her. Even her pretty, green eyes are different (Clarke hates that even after everything, she can still think Lexa’s eyes are pretty). They look dimmed, like something inside Lexa has been extinguished and she hasn’t figured out how to relight it. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says. The way she says her name is so delicate, as if she fears Clarke will vanish if she isn’t careful. Then she glances up at Roan, and the delicacy is replaced with pure vitriol as she snarls, “What did your mother do to her?” 

Anger bubbles up inside Clarke, so hot that she can’t tame it. _How dare she ask that? She has no right_. “At least she didn’t betray me,” she says. The venom in her voice sounds scary even to her own ears. 

The hurt in Lexa’s eyes when they dart back to Clarke almost makes her regret her words. Almost. Lexa swallows. She looks at Roan again. “Roan, you’re dismissed.” 

Clarke feels Roan’s arm tighten around her shoulders. “Commander, you promised me safe haven in Polis. Nia has put a bounty on my head.” 

“We will discuss it tomorrow. Now leave.” 

Roan’s arm drops in resignation. He doesn’t risk looking at Clarke. He remounts his horse. Clarke wishes she could leave with him. Being around Lexa is just _too much_. Too much emotion for her to handle right now. 

“Clarke, we have to get you to the healers.” Clarke notices how Lexa keeps her eyes on the ground now. Lexa gestures at one of the guards behind her. “Help her up the stairs,” she commands. 

The guard moves to take hold of Clarke. She pushes his hands away. “I can do it on my own.” 

Clarke climbs the first step. Lexa follows. She notices Lexa’s hands twitching at her sides, like she’s struggling not to reach out and help her. She climbs the second. She moves to climb the third. She stumbles and falls. _I can’t do it on my own_. Lexa’s lithe arms wrap around her before she can hit the ground.


End file.
